The Memoirs I wish I could Write Page 2

But, its a start.

To tell you the truth, I don't know what will happen when I'm done with it all. I really don't know why I'm writing. I really don't know why I'm doing anything at all. I just do. And hope that, in the end, it will all make sense. I guess you could call my life a type of "collage," pieces of mistakes, truths, and flaws placed in an unorganized or unrecognizable manner, that when looked upon too closely, its simply scattered nonsense, but when looked from afar, beauty incarnate.

I've lost friends. Yet, I move on.
I've lost loves. Yet, I move on.

The real question, though, is not whether things make sense in the end, but why I moved on, and from what.

I don't claim to have all the answers, as one with experience. Experience does NOT mean truth. I've experienced too many fatal flaws for something as fragile and black and white as truth to be contingent upon it.

I look at certain individuals in my life, and ask myself "What if everything worked out, and what if my life were as easy and as simple as theirs seems to be?" I definitely wouldn't be who I am today. I definitely wouldn't be as Lost as I am today. I definitely wouldn't strive as much as I do today, or be as determined or passionate to succeed as I am today.

They know nothing but success. But I know failure. I know flaws. I know mistakes. I know darkness. This is what makes me, me. As a result, I guess I appreciate Success, Perfection, Flawlessness, and Good a whole lot more.

Their virgin ego is nothing more than idiocracy. They know nothing of life.

I've consistently had to ask myself if Life was worth living for, and What is li-

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